


Falling Flowers

by MasterOfThePen



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hanahaki Disease, Implied Relationships, Multi, One-Sided Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 04:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterOfThePen/pseuds/MasterOfThePen
Summary: A beautiful flower blooms / But who does it bloom for?In the language of flowers, the stock’s message was: Enjoy the life you have before it is gone.Rosch could neither confess his true feelings, nor could he bear to have the disease removed from his lungs. But he could take joy in those quiet moments spent at his best friend’s side for as long as he could continue drawing breath into his body.





	Falling Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Svirdilu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Svirdilu/gifts).



> I blame you for planting this plotbunny. You're welcome.
> 
> Also, the song lyrics in the synopsis are translated from Radiant Historia: Perfect Chronology's opening theme song. Credit for the translation goes to the wonderful [Noctuart](http://noctuart.tumblr.com/post/168657024821/radiant-historia-perfect-chronology-%E8%90%BD%E8%8A%B1%E6%B5%81%E6%B0%B4)!

After the mission debriefing, Viola dismissed them all.

Rosch waited for the others to leave, holding his breath as a familiar ache crept into his lungs and tightened his chest. Once he was sure the others were out of earshot, Rosch covered his mouth with one hand, desperately trying to stifle the coughing fit that seized his lungs.

“Major?” It was difficult to hear Viola’s voice over the sound of his coughing. “Are you quite alright?”

“I’m—” Rosch managed to draw a shaky breath before another bought of coughing overtook him. He could feel the tickle of petals crawling up his throat. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes with the strain of choking them back. “I’m fine! It’s just all this dust—”

The huge soldier doubled over as the coughing fit resumed. Petals flew past his lips and fluttered to the floor despite his best efforts to hold them in check. He clapped a hand over his mouth as his lungs heaved beneath the roots drawing ever tighter against his heart. With a last desperate wheeze, Rosch managed to expel the blockage.

Pulling his hand away, Rosch stared down at the wet and crumpled flower sitting forlornly against his palm; its dark red petals were stained an even brighter shade of crimson.

 _No…_ Rosch blinked back the veil of tears that blurred his vision. _I’m running out of time._  
  
“Major Rosch!” He heard the Field Marshal’s footsteps as she approached. “Are you…?” Her voice trailed off.

Rosch clenched his fist, crushing the red-hued flower between his fingers. But he knew he couldn’t hide all the evidence from her. The bloody petals strewn against the sand-coated flagstones had already damned him.

“Don’t make such a fuss, Sir,” he said, weakly. “I’ve been through this once before. I can handle it.”

He turned, intending to offer a reassuring smile, but the expression quickly withered when he met the Field Marshal’s eyes. Though her features remained carefully schooled, he could clearly see the resignation—the quiet sadness—reflected in her pale blue eyes _._

“Once before?” she said, cracking a small grin, though the look was far from mirthful. “I daresay, it’s difficult enough to survive a single bout of the disease, but to become afflicted a second time? That’s quite the stroke of bad luck, isn’t it?”

Rosch made a small noise of displeasure, and quickly regretted it. His throat felt raw, and he could use a drink of water right about now. “I won’t let it interfere with my duties, I assure you.”

“That’s not what has me concerned, Major. You said you survived the disease once before: Did you elect for surgery or…?”

Rosch shook his head. “No, Sir. I confessed my feelings, which were returned in kind.”

“Ah.” Viola’s brows drew close together. “How fortunate for you.”

“Yeah. She accepted my feelings wholeheartedly, without any hesitation. I feel kind of stupid for having waited so long to tell her.”

“Even battle-hardened soldiers have fears and worries outside the battlefield.” Viola took to one knee and plucked a blood-stained petal off the floor. She twirled it between thumb and forefinger. “Although I cannot fault you for your hesitation in such matters, it’s clear that the disease has progressed quite far in your case.” She fixed Rosch with a studious look. “Have you come to a decision, Major?”

Rosch’s fingers curled tighter against the flower crushed within his fist. “I won’t have the surgery, if that’s what you’re asking.”

No, Rosch had already made up his mind on that point. He can’t cut away the roots twisting around his heart. Those roots symbolized the bond shared between him and Stocke—to sever them would mean severing the bonds of affection he felt for his best friend, leaving nothing but a cold and barren wasteland within his heart.

“I see,” Viola said. “Then I take it you’ll confess your feelings once more?”

Rosch watched as the Field Marshal plucked the crinkled petals from the floor one by one, gathering them into the palm of her hand. After collecting them all, she straightened, carrying them toward the banquet table. She dropped them in a cracked wooden bowl that was once probably used to hold bread or fruit. The unforgiving desert heat would dry the petals out shortly, just as it has dried out the wooden furnishings. It would be a simple task to dispose of them, then. Burn them, along with the rest of the refuse.

No one need ever know. Least of all Stocke…

Rosch made a low noise deep in his throat. “That’s… not really an option for me, at this point.”

Viola turned, and Rosch found himself uncomfortably pinned beneath her piercing gaze. Her lips pursed into a thin line. “The flower? May I see it?”

Well, there wasn’t much use in hiding things at this point. As the Field Marshal approached, Rosch extended his hand and uncurled his fingers, revealing the broken flower. Viola carefully took the flower, handling it with a delicacy that seemed unsuited for its bedraggled state.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the flower’s shape. “This is a stock, isn’t it?”

Rosch blinked. He hadn’t expected Viola to identify it, especially now that it was crushed beyond all recognition. “That’s right. In the language of flowers, it means ‘bonds of affection’.”

“Then, am I correct to assume that the one you’ve fallen for is that subordinate of yours?” Her tone was without accusation, merely curious. “Lieutenant Stocke, was it?”

Again, Rosch was surprised by the Field Marshal’s astute observation. Though, honestly, it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. How obvious could his affections be if he was coughing up the very flowers that served as his beloved’s namesake?

“You’re not wrong,” he said, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Viola’s armored fingers closed carefully around the broken flower, forming a gilded cage. “That’s a rather difficult position for a man of your rank to be in.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But that’s not the reason I can’t confess my feelings to him.”

“Then what is the reason?”

“Because I know that he doesn’t feel the same. He’s never shown an interest in anyone—not in _that way_.”

And in that moment, Rosch was suddenly reminded of the admonishment Stocke had given him; the way he made sure to emphasize Sonja’s feelings on the matter rather than his own. But he also couldn’t help remembering the gentle touch of Stocke’s fingers against his shoulder, the quiet smile of reassurance.

Rosch could feel the knot of wanting within his heart growing tighter by degrees, the roots twining around his lungs slowly increasing their stranglehold. Petals were already jabbing against the back of his throat. It seemed that even a warm thought toward his friend was enough to trigger an attack these days.

(He really was hopeless, wasn’t he?)

He swallowed hard, forcing the petals back down. “Telling him would only burden him with unwanted feelings, and I…” Rosch shook his head. “He has enough worries on his mind right now.”

“That’s very noble of you. Were I in your position, I would surely—” The Field Marshal paused, clearing her throat. “I would surely have done—” Pressing a hand to her mouth, she coughed once. Twice. “My apologies. The dust… It exacerbates my condition.”

That’s right. Rosch had overheard some of the soldiers complaining about all the dust and sand that managed to slip through the chinks in the stonework. Many of them took great pains to sweep the floors every day, fighting an endless battle against the desert’s encroaching sands. It was ultimately a futile effort, though Rosch had to admire their devotion toward Alistel’s beloved Valkyrie.

“I’ll bring you some water!” Rosch said, hurrying toward the banquet table. There was a pitcher and some clay cups sitting nearby. Rosch poured the water as the Field Marshal continued to cough, the harsh sound echoing against the stonework.

As he approached, Rosch could see the sweat beading against her pale forehead. She fumbled for something tucked within her sleeve, keeping one hand pressed firmly over her mouth, and the crumpled stock fell to the floor. She pulled a white handkerchief from her sleeve and quickly pressed it to her lips. It was spotted with rust-colored stains. Dried blood.

Rosch’s fingers tightened around the clay cup. “Field Marshal!”

She waved him off. “It’s… nothing,” she said, drawing a wheezing breath. “It will pass—”

Eyes widening, Viola doubled over as a violent coughing fit shook her entire body. Her shoulders trembled with each painful spasm, causing her pauldrons to rattle. A fringe of silver hair fell across her eyes, and somehow, it was that one small movement that made her look so fragile, so utterly vulnerable.

Rosch could only watch helplessly as the Field Marshal retched, and her handkerchief reddened with fresh blood, like roses blooming against a snowy landscape. She drew a gasping breath and dabbed at her lower lip. The color had drained from her face so that she looked nearly as pale as the mantle wrapped about her shoulders.

Slowly, Rosch approached. He offered her the cup. “Drink this.”

“Thank you,” Viola took the offered cup, keeping a firm hold of the bloodstained handkerchief, and pressed it to her lips. She took a few tentative sips.

Now that he was closer, Rosch noticed the handkerchief was elaborately tatted around the edges and that there was some sort of embroidered motif in one corner; a golden chrysanthemum. It was considered the official flower of Alistel and its image was emblazoned on everything in the Capital, from coinage to official seals to crests belonging to esteemed military leaders. It was even said to be a favored flower of the Prophet himself.

But something else caught his eye—something dangling from the lacework. A thin curled petal, white as freshly driven snow. As Viola lowered the cup, the petal worked itself loose and drifted to the floor to lie alongside the crumpled stock at her feet.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

Rosch didn’t respond. He took to one knee and picked up the crumpled stock, along with the single white petal. He knew what kind of flower it belonged to—the kind reserved exclusively for funerary rites. They were placed on the graves of those who had passed away, especially those who had died in service to their country.

A white chrysanthemum.

Straightening, he extended his hand, and Viola’s eyes widened. “That’s…”

“So, the rumors about your failing health,” Rosch said, “they were true, weren’t they?”

“They’ve been greatly exaggerated, I assure you.” Viola’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “I’ve suffered though this affliction for the better part of ten years.”

“Ten years?!” Rosch nearly yelped. “Three years is the best prognosis I’ve heard, and those are the rare cases!”

“Then I suppose that makes me an especially rare case, doesn’t it?”

“But your men? Do they—”

Viola shook her head, and Rosch immediately fell silent. “They know that I have suffered from respiratory issues for most of my life. However, most of them are unaware that I’ve contracted this _particular_ affliction and the few who are aware have been sworn to secrecy.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I trust that you shall keep this matter discreet, Major?”

“Y-Yes, of course, but that flower… A white chrysanthemum is…”

“I am well aware of what that flower symbolizes.” Her tone remained impassive. “I never expected to live a long life, you know? I’ve made my peace, and I am willing to lay down my life in service in Alistel.”

For a moment, Rosch forgot he was addressing the Field Marshal, the supreme commander of Alistel’s army. “How can you talk so calmly about dying when you’re obviously fighting so hard to live?!” The fingers of his right hand curled into a fist, and even the razor-sharp claws of his Gauntlet twitched in anger. “You’ve suffered through this illness for ten long years, and yet—”

“That’s quite enough, Major.” Though Viola had not raised her voice, it cut across Rosch’s words like a finely-honed blade. “Even if I were to have the surgery, my health is already shattered. I have precious little time left to me, and I have chosen to spend that time fighting to protect my country and to uphold the Prophet’s teachings.”

A shadow passed across her face at the mention of the Prophet, and suddenly, Rosch understood the true significance behind the chrysanthemums. In the language of flowers, they symbolized loyalty and devotion, both romantic and platonic.

There was only one person to whom the Valkyrie would dedicate herself completely, both body and soul. But he was a man who treated every citizen in his country as his own child, and his love could never belong to a single person, no matter how ardent their affections. He would remain forever beyond the Valkyrie’s reach, as surely as Stocke would remain forever beyond his own.

It was a pitiful situation to find themselves in. And yet Viola managed to endure the sorrow of an unrequited love with far more grace and dignity than Rosch could ever hope to muster.

Shame at his own words quickly dissipated his anger. “Forgive me, Field Marshal,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I spoke out of turn.”

“That’s quite all right, Major. I understand that your words come from a place of concern.” She smiled, and the quiet warmth in her eyes reminded him of Stocke. “I appreciate the sentiment, truly, but I am beyond hope at this point. So long as I have breath in this body, I will continue to fight for the sake of my country.”

Rosch couldn’t argue against that sentiment. He was a soldier through and through, and they all understood the risks of taking up arms against an enemy nation.

Even so, he wanted desperately to offer a few words of encouragement, no matter how paltry. “I pray you live long enough to see the end of the war, Sir.”

“If it is the Prophet’s will, then so I shall. Now, you should hurry along and go celebrate with your subordinates. I’m certain they must be wondering what’s become of you.”

“Er… Right. Of course.” His gaze dropped toward the wilted flower and white petal sitting in the palm of his hand. “But shouldn’t I—”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, plucking the bloodied evidence of their illness from his hand. “Now go. That’s an order, Major.”

“Y-Yes, Sir!” He sketched a quick salute. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Rosch turned on his heel and was making his way toward the door when Viola called, “Oh, and one more thing, Major.” He paused, turning to face her once more.

Viola’s normally calm expression faltered. “I remembered something that the Prophet once told me. I thought that, perhaps, it might help with your situation.” Rosch stiffened, feeling suddenly unworthy of the Field Marshal’s concern. “He once told me that regrets are the stones which weigh heavy upon the soul. Cast them aside as one casts aside a stone in one’s shoe. Only then can we truly live our lives, joyfully, in service to others.”

The tension eased from Rosch’s shoulders, and he found he was able to smile. “Thank you for the advice, Field Marshal. I’ll make sure to take your words to heart.”

And with that, Rosch made his way down the hall toward his brigade’s quarters. His armored boots scuffed loudly against the weathered stones as Viola’s words echoed in his mind.

Cast aside his regrets? Was it really that simple?

Something tickled the back of his throat, and it was hard to say whether it was the prick of petals or merely a bit of dust that had been stirred up by his footsteps. Rosch coughed into his hand, but the fit passed quickly, so perhaps he had only inhaled a little dust, after all.

However, it was then that he remembered stocks symbolized more than just friendship and affection.

In the language of flowers, the stock’s message was: Enjoy the life you have before it is gone.

As Rosch entered the brigade’s quarters to a welcoming fanfare, he could feel his heart growing lighter. He was immediately surrounded by Kiel and the others; the enthusiastic press of bodies was almost stifling, but Rosch couldn’t help but laugh along with them. They led him to a nearby table, crowing about the vintage wine that the Field Marshal had so graciously rewarded them, and Rosch wondered if some of the soldiers hadn’t started the drinking a little early. His eyes scanned the crowd and quickly alighted on a red-clad figure leaning casually against the wall, well apart from the others.

Stocke said nothing, but the small smile he offered was more than what Rosch could have hoped for. His heart swelled against the tightness of the roots wrapped around it, and he smiled in return.

Rosch could neither confess his true feelings, nor could he bear to have the disease removed from his lungs. But he could take joy in those quiet moments spent at his best friend’s side for as long as he could continue drawing breath into his body.

And that was good enough for now.


End file.
